


Apophenia

by Mongoose_Mores



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: But canonically compliant, Demisexual Will is one of many potential headcanons, Hand porn, Hannigram - Freeform, I have always wanted to play with Hannibal's olfactory superpowers, M/M, Timeline is toward the end of S2, kind of a pwp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mongoose_Mores/pseuds/Mongoose_Mores
Summary: “And so you have come here, at this time of night, driven by something other than hate and fear. Driven by something new entirely.” He walked closer towards Will, closing the space between them until he was intimately near. “Tell me, Will,” he said as he gingerly lifted Will’s hand, rubbing his thumb between his fingers appraisingly, “when was the last time you did something that wastrulyjust for yourself?”





	Apophenia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [You_Are_As_Alone_As_I_Am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Are_As_Alone_As_I_Am/gifts).



> This is a holiday present for a Hannigram Holiday Exchange I'm a part of. It's been a while since I've written these two, but it's a welcome, comfortable endeavor to do so. This will most likely have another chapter, as that was my original intent. Hope y'all enjoy.

Will stood by the window, noting the patterns of frost that had accumulated against the glass. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together absently, lost in thought.

 

He had asked to see Hannibal, knowing his request would be honored despite the late hour.  Even now, standing here, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen. Wasn’t sure what he was capable of. All he knew was that he couldn’t go another day, not even another hour, without letting the truth come to the surface.

 

Will’s focus shifted to the approaching figure as Hannibal finished locking the foyer door. Despite the hour and the weather, Hannibal was meticulously put together, as usual, in a smart midnight blue single-breasted plaid number, complete with jacquard weave, adorned with a blood red pocket square of linen silk, and a paisley tie in a double windsor knot.

 

Hannibal came into Will’s personal space, less than an arm’s-length between them, and studied him from head to toe. “Well, I must be quite direct in asking you, is everything alright Will?”

 

Will closed his eyes and sighed, nodding his head from side to side. He shook off his amusement over his assessment of Hannibal’s outfit, and the awareness of how much he’d learned about fashion in the past few months. “Yes, it’s fine, everything is fine. I’m sorry for the late hour,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face.

 

“Well, I am glad to hear that. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

 

Will raised his eyebrows, looking reproachfully around the room. “This is going to sound odd, but, it’s kind of difficult to articulate.”

 

Hannibal eyed him with a cool, steely gaze. “Try.”

 

Will looked around cagily, nodding sardonically. He shifted on his feet and walked a few steps closer to the ladder nearby, circling forward so his distance from Hannibal was not altered.

 

“There are many things I have become aware of in these past few months. Many certainties,” he said as he ran his fingers over the nearest rung of the ladder. “One of them is that, after everything that’s passed between us, and as much as I would like there to be an alternative, I cannot seem to hate you.”

 

Hannibal cocked his head to the side, then fluidly returned it to its original position, his eyes never leaving Will’s, even as he avoided looking at Hannibal. He waited, patient, for Will to continue.

 

“Another certainty, is that I no longer feel frightened by what I am capable of. Instead I feel,” he turned back to face Hannibal, looking up to stare him directly in his reddish brown eyes, “ _exhilarated_.”

 

Hannibal let out the most subtle exhalation of breath.

 

“And so you have come here, at this time of night, driven by something other than hate and fear. Driven by something new entirely.” He walked closer towards Will, closing the space between them until he was intimately near. “Tell me, Will,” he said as he gingerly lifted Will’s hand, rubbing his thumb between his fingers appraisingly, “when was the last time you did something that was _truly_ just for yourself?”

 

Will’s eyes widened, his mouth opening almost involuntarily. He licked his lips, lowering his gaze to his constrained hand. He repeated Hannibal’s words as if in a trance.

 

“Just for myself…”

 

With a viscous slowness, Hannibal glanced up from where they were connected until their eyes were locked together. He leaned in until his lips were nearly touching Will’s ear.

 

“I really should introduce you to my manicurist. These cuticles are shameful.”

 

Will huffed, bemusement cutting through the tension. “ _Shameful_? My, Doctor, I wouldn't have expected you to project shame onto my fingers. Are you claiming to be an authority on the subject?”

 

“On the subject of your fingers, or shame?” Hannibal smirked.

 

Will laughed sardonically, aware of the embarrassed quality imbued in the tail end of it. And of the fact that Hannibal was still rubbing his thumb.

 

Almost unconsciously, he turned to face Hannibal directly. “Why, I would wager that you know more about shame, if only from a theoretical perspective, than you do about my fingers…”

 

Hannibal eyed him, expression completely unreadable. But those _microexpressions_.

Those were magnified. Always magnified.

 

Then a new twitch of the mouth, a vastness in the eyes, and something beautifully divergent reared its head.

 

 _He’s_ allowing _me to see this. Practically broadcasting it, because he knows I know where to look._

 

“On the contrary, Will. Though you are correct in assessing my purely theoretical relationship with the concept of shame, you are amiss if you do not think I know the story of your torn cuticles, earned from working on two fishing lures, supplemented by the soupçon of oil under your right index finger from that boat motor; a Marlow Pilot, was it? All beset by the fact that you cannot go more than 4 days without picking at your cuticles. Not on every finger though, only your thumb and index. Just here,” Hannibal gently stroked the torn skin, “see?”

 

Something in Will told him to withdraw his hand. To shove it quickly into his pocket, walk briskly out Hannibal's door, and drive steadfastly back to Wolf Trap. But that something was eclipsed, _easily,_ by the stronger urge to be completely undone by the man in front of him. The man whose meticulous mask became transparent when Will looked at it. The man who knew Will’s capacity to understand Hannibal was matched only by his capacity to understand Will.

 

There were moments in life that either became points plotted if they were seized upon; coordinates that told a story, or not, if the moments were allowed to pass. Will understood this better than most. He was sure that physiologically his pulse was slightly elevated, his system influenced by adrenaline. And yet, he couldn't feel anything but an endless sense of calm.

 

“Would you...like to try your best to give me something to be theoretically ashamed of?”

 

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose slightly, punctuated by his pursed lips. He was struck by how gloriously inconvenient this evening was becoming.   

 

Will continued, peeling back the mask as one would a sign with failed adhesive.“You’re _afraid_. It excites you to be afraid, and the reason for your fear excites you. You haven’t felt this way in a very, very long time. When I enter your presence, and this happens every time, you swear you smell cloudberry, which you associate with the last period in your life when you felt truly safe and…” he hesitated, “...happy. Every time. It still catches you off guard, and you have to do a reality check, which is incredibly rare for you, to convince yourself that it’s an olfactory illusion. You keep wondering if you taste me...if I’ll taste lik-”

 

His words blurred with the colors of the room, blurred with the fire of their skin, colliding mouths, saliva, fingertips exploring, disrobing, taking, as Hannibal hastened forward to converge with Will.

Will was pressed back against the wall, his jacket thrown open and his hips undulating forward to press against Hannibal’s body.

 

He threw his head back, displaying the long white stretch of delicate skin along his neck.

 

 _“Please_ , I need… _”_

 

“Yes, Will?”

 

Suddenly, Hannibal stilled completely, then reached down and pinned Will's hands by his sides against the wall. He slowly stroked the ragged cuticle of Will’s thumb, breathing heavily against his mouth.

 

“Why...why did you stop?”

 

“Go on, tell me,” Hannibal said assuredly. His hair was subtly disheveled, eyes full with want.

 

Will enveloped him with his gaze. He cocked his head to the side, speaking in a measured tone.

 

“You need me as much as I need you. You don’t want this to end. You want it to last for as long as possible.” He paused between heavy pants, steadying his intake of breath, and licked his lips. “I know you want to consume me in every possible way, Doctor. I want you to know that you already have. I feel you _everywhere._ Hear your voice in my head till I can’t distinguish my thoughts from yours. You have devoured me in all ways,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, “in all ways-”

 

“-in all ways but one;” Hannibal finished, “well, two.” He looked up at Will from under his eyelashes, a wicked sneer painting his face.

 

Will’s eyes widened, and he shivered. Hannibal’s expression returned to that of a neutral mask.

 

“But the _latter_ is not for today.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Cloudberry:** Around 5% of Lithuania is covered by wetlands, and many of these are considered peat bogs. Clouderry is a rhizomatous herb species of the peat bogs that produces amber-colored edible fruit which is similar to the raspberry or blackberry.
> 
>  **Apophenia:** Attributing meaning to perceived connections or patterns of seemingly unrelated phenomena. 
> 
> Note: This is not to say that there is no purpose for it, nor that it isn't valid.


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